


memento-mortem

by craftingdead



Series: charlie will make cd a common tag if it kills them [25]
Category: The Crafting Dead
Genre: Character Study, Gen, fuck you mist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 06:38:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19290268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craftingdead/pseuds/craftingdead
Summary: He had never… really… thought about the “symbolism” of his scarf, ever, but now it’s all he can.Choking him, suffocating him, or whatever it is that people sing about on the radio.





	memento-mortem

**Author's Note:**

> pancakes for breakfast - like dying things do

He had never… really…  _ thought  _ about the “symbolism” of his scarf, ever, but now it’s all he can.

Choking him, suffocating him, or whatever it is that people sing about on the radio. 

 

He’s terrified of being forgotten. That’s all there is to that.

Number one fear, bingo, if anyone guessed a confetti cannon would come out and burst out beautiful colored paper shredded to ribbons. Second worst fear? Becoming a monster, but no one would guess that.

(It’s not like he can choose whether he becomes one of those—he can deal with the “forgotten” thing, can carve his name into every countertop, leave traces of him on every surface he touches, every person he leaves a mark on—but it’s not his decision whether or not his cracks break inwards or explode out.)

His third worst fear is a person, actually, but that’s not important so let’s skip to number four: not existing. It’s horrifying. Death—death is  _ horrifying. _

Mildly fascinating, but horrifying.

 

He runs up to ask how a supply raid is going and gets brushed by. It’s once, but it ruins his day to be ignored like he’s not even there. He got no sleep the night before. He sleeps in until twelve and gets woken up by Gray banging on his door and yelling at him.

He stopped sleeping in as much after… after Jordan’s death. He’d nod off, and wake up hyperventilating, so he stopped bothering and watched the hours go from eight, to six, to four, to none.

It’s not anything too big; Ghetto asks him how he slept, he smiles, and says, “Fine!” cheerfully and Ghetto rolls his eyes and asks how long he slept in till.

“How did you know?” he teases back, and punches him in the arm, and ignores the bags underneath his eyes.

 

Leading isn’t easy. Nobody ever said it would or could be easy. But that doesn’t make it any less hard.

He almost breaks a few times. Does, once, but no one was there to see it, and that’s better than nothing and that’s better than failing and that’s better than disappointment. Fear number five: disappointment.

He just makes everything worse by trying to get better. As they grow, he wilts, feeling his branches and leaves break and bend and snap off, littering the ground with cracking leaves.

 

It’s equally annoying, trying to fight with everything going on. Sometimes he just wants to GIVE. UP. and leave everything to the Major or Ghetto or whoever else could possibly be a leader and just, run into the woods, or something. Become feral. Lose his mind slowly or whatever it is that happens to people that run into the woods.

He would probably die from starvation or sleep loss, from not sleeping in weeks, or months, or however long it’d been since he last got seven hours of sleep.

And he can feel the temptation grow stronger every time he looks out his window. Just leave everything behind and stay with his own thoughts for a night or two.

 

It’s not as peaceful as he thinks.

 

Red’s prison is like purgatory; not hell, because that would mean he would have done something to deserve hell like everyone else tries to claim. “It’s purgatory,” they yell, making jokes as he nods along and wishes he could’ve just  _ done fucking something to have everything happen like this and happen to him and them and _

“You’re cute, you know, when you look like that,” Red says, monotone, leaning an arm against his cell and casting his gaze downwards.

Eat shit and leave me alone. He doesn’t respond.

His resolve is breaking.

 

Gray has been taking over more and more. He once didn’t leave his room for an entire day, and he thinks no one tried to come talk to him, or whatever. It might have been shorter, or longer, he’s starting to lose track of the days.

By now, he’s wishing Red or Ross or someone would come attack so he can keep track of the hours again.

He won’t tell anyone that, however, because he’s not selfish and he’s never been fully truthful and they would then think he’s a monster, and that’s horrifying enough to make him shake. Or maybe he’s just sick.

 

But in the morning, gathered in the cafeteria, laughing, cheering, doing whatever, they might not even notice if he isn’t there. He skipped breakfast a lot even before his downward spiral down into “purgatory,” or whatever Corl used to say.

But he’s got a pair of scissors in his drawer.

But he’s melded himself into someone who won’t be missed.


End file.
